


Gone

by dimerization



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Dragon Age II, animal death (mentioned), rogue hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimerization/pseuds/dimerization
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the end of Dragon Age II.</p><p>Hawke makes it out of Kirkwall with everyone who will come.  And hoo boy, is she pissed.</p><p>For all your pro-mage-rights Anders-punching needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I finally got around to beating Dragon Age II and I needed to, like, vent. A lot. And punch Anders in the face, which, WHY do they not give you an option to do that in-game?!?? I'm still upset about it. 
> 
> I proofread this fic so hopefully the writing isn't completely awful, but it hasn't been beta'd or anything.

They rode all night. The horses had been easy to steal – the Templar stables were all but deserted. So they saddled up and left as Kirkwall burned behind them. Varric rode pillion with Merrill, looking distinctly unhappy about it; Anders and Isabela rode behind them in silence, keeping their eyes on the road, and Hawke brought up the rear, chewing on the inside of her cheek until her mouth tasted harshly of blood. At least it was _her_ blood this time, she thought bitterly. They'd stopped to rest the horses an hour or two ago and Hawke had taken the opportunity to wipe some of the gore off, but her armor was stained dark with blood and demon's ichor; she didn't even want to think about the condition of her blades. Still, it was more pleasant to worry about getting new sheaths for her daggers than it was to ride onward as the sky grew light, staring silently at her lover's back. Her _former_ lover, she thought furiously. Void take him. This was all Anders' fault, even the stains on her armor. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him.

 

_10 hours earlier._

 

Hightown was impassable. The market square was choked with overturned vendors' kiosks, burning wagons, even a makeshift barricade, well-defended by the city guard. It was impossible to reach the Hawke mansion. Aveline stopped them there.

“I need to find my husband,” she said. Hawke looked up at her – her oldest friend in Kirkwall, her most trusted companion – the woman who had turned aside from her own convictions to help defend the Circle mages Meredith had ordered executed as the last vestiges of sanity slipped through her fingers.

“Go,” Hawke said.

“Where will you be?” Aveline asked. Hawke laughed bitterly.

“Anywhere that's not Kirkwall.”

Aveline nodded.

“What about you?” Hawke asked.

“I am the captain of the guard. My husband is here. My guardsmen are here. My place is here. I have to stay.”

“But what about the Templars?” Hawke said.

“Cullen seems a decent sort. I have confidence that he'll do what is right. And if not – ” Aveline's chin went up – “then I will face the consequences of my actions. Here. For once, there may be a little justice in Kirkwall.” The glare she leveled at Anders would have made even Hawke quail, but the mage met her eyes, his face hard. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of fighting, and the roar and hiss of the fire eating its way through every flammable part of Hightown.

“I have to go, Hawke,” Aveline said at length. Hawke nodded.

“Wait – before you go – branding yourself a mage sympathizer and ruining your career wasn't enough for me, I guess. I need … one more favor, Aveline.” Hawke put a hand on her friend's arm.

“Anything.”

“Check my estate as soon as you can. Bodahn and Sandal, and Orana – if they're still inside – if they're in Kirkwall – just...”

“I'll find them, Hawke. I'll keep them safe.” Aveline's words carried the weight of an oath.

“Thank you,” Hawke said. Aveline looked at her, then past her to their friends: Anders, stony-faced, leaning on his staff; Varric, still carrying Bianca, a bolt already loaded; Merrill, watching Hawke and Aveline converse, rocking up and down on the balls of her feet, waiting.

“Maker guide you,” said Aveline. And then she turned, and strode away through the fire, and Hawke had stood in silence and watched until her friend vanished into the smoke.

“We need to get out of here, Hawke.” It was Varric. Hawke shook herself.

“The docks?” said Anders.

“If we want to steal a boat, we're going to have to fight our way through more guards to do it. The day a merchant leaves their goods unprotected will be the day I put on a bloody habit and take my vows to Andraste,” Isabela said tartly. Hawke couldn't even muster up a smile at the image.

“What about the stables?” Merrill asked. “I mean – I can ride – can you ride? Hawke? Isabela?” She eyed Varric dubiously.

“There won't be any Templars guarding _their_ horses,” Anders said.

“Right then. Let's go,” said Hawke. Together, they began to make their way down towards the city wall.

 

_Now._

 

They followed the coastline west, keeping well clear of the mountains as they made their way toward Cumberland, in Nevarra. The route would take them through the Planasene Forest – _that_ should be fun, Hawke thought – but Cumberland was the nearest city to Kirkwall, and, more importantly, the nearest port. She had no idea what would happen when they got there, but as a destination it would do for now. The last hints of pink were fading from the sky when Merrill checked.

“There's a stream here. We should rest the horses,” she said.

“And my _ass,”_ Varric grumbled from his seat behind the slender elf. “I don't know how you people _ride_ these things.” He had spent most of the ride trying not to clutch at Merrill and staring determinedly at the horizon.

“Come on, Varric, come to mama,” Isabela said, walking over to his horse and holding up her arms as though the dwarf were a child.

“Go to hell, Rivaini,” Varric said without rancor.

“Already there. And I have to say, I don't much like the view.” Isabela looked back towards the rising sun, where the column of smoke above Kirkwall made a black slash through the early morning sky. She wasn't smiling. Neither was anyone else.

“Right,” said Hawke. “Let's take a break. Maker knows I could use one too.” She slid off her horse, looking around wearily. There wasn't much for the horses to graze on – sea grass, a few flowers – she hoped it would be enough. It wouldn't do to ride the animals to death; they'd make the trip to Cumberland _much_ easier. Besides, Hawke had done enough killing for one day. Her mouth twisted.

“Here.” Anders was at her elbow, reaching for her horse's reins. “Let me get that,” he said. He met her eyes briefly. He looked rather like a dog that had just been kicked, Hawke thought. Anger surged in her chest. What right did he have – hell. She let Anders lead her horse to the stream without a word, and stalked down towards the surf, staring out at the sea. Ferelden was there, south away, on the other side of the water. Maybe she could go back? And do _what,_ the bitter little voice in her mind demanded. Work as a sellsword again? Shit.

Her friends had stayed near the horses, talking quietly. Merrill was on her knees, filling a waterskin. She had better help out, or at least sit down. Hawke trudged back up the beach, unclenching a fist she'd never noticed making. Her fingers ached as she forced herself to relax her hand.

“ – don't know why she's still bothering with you, Blondie.” Varric leaned on a rock, carefully wiping down the stock of his crossbow.

“If it was me, I'd have thrown you to the Templars then and there,” the dwarf continued.

“I don't know either,” Anders said flatly.

“You're mad, you know that?” Isabela demanded. “If I'm going to do something _that_ stupid, I at _least_ make sure I have an escape route planned. Or a few dozen.”

“I never expected to get away. I assumed the Templars would kill me or something. Make me Tranquil, maybe. I don't know. This wasn't something I did so I could tell stories about it later.”

“Well, isn't that noble. The high and mighty Anders, martyring himself for the demon in his head – ”

“Justice isn't a demon!”

“Could have fooled me.” Isabela shook her head in disgust.

“Andraste's tits, Blondie. You want to be a martyr? Maybe you should just stick to martyring _yourself,_ instead of half the population of Kirkwall. You were the one who signed up for it, after all,” Varric said.

“This wasn't _about_ me, damn it! I – ”

“Anders.” Merrill's soft voice brought him up short.

“I know you believe you did the right thing. But you killed a lot of people. I know what it's like to make a choice no one else understands, to do something dangerous, maybe bad, that everyone else thinks is wrong. It's frustrating when no one supports you. I put myself in danger, my friends, my whole clan – Keeper – ” Merrill swallowed hard – “Keeper Merethari, she – all for the Iluvian. I thought I was in control, but I wasn't.”

“I don't _want_ to control the situation! I just – ”

“Really?” Hawke snapped. Anders jumped; he hadn't heard her come up behind him.

“Because from where I'm sitting it looks a hell of a lot like you just tried to start a civil war across half of Thedas, overthrow the entire Templar order, and put Meredith's head on a spike in your front yard!” Hawke went on.

“Mages _should_ rise up against the Templars! The Circle – ”

“Shut the fuck up!” Hawke snarled. Anders was angry now, too; Hawke couldn't tell if the glint in his eyes was fury, or Justice.

“Will you just let me finish!”

“No! You said your piece when you blew up the damned Chantry and everyone in it! Now it's _my_ turn.”

“Bloody hell – ” Anders turned away, rubbing his forehead.

“How many people were in there, Anders? How many people just going to services, going to pray for their aunt or their mother – how many apostates were in there – how many children? You think that because _you're_ possessed by some damned justice demon, you're the ultimate authority on what's right and what's wrong? Of course the Circle is wrong, of _course_ mages resist it! But you're not the only mage in Thedas, Anders. This is bigger than you. What gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies?”

Anders turned back to her, his face tired, his eyes sad.

“Marian – ” he began.

“I'm not finished yet!” Hawke was yelling by now, had been yelling for some time. She couldn't remember when she'd last been this angry. “If you want to die on a Templar's sword to make some kind of statement, that's your business. But _how_ many mages did Meredith have executed before we could stop her? _How_ many mages were possessed, _how_ many of their demons were forced to manifest in self-defense when the Templars attacked? _How_ many of them could have been helped, if only they'd had time? And Orsino – ” Hawke broke off, fighting for air.

“Marian...” Anders said. Hawke ignored him.

“I killed him,” she said. “I killed him with my own hands. I hammered a knife into his skull and ripped his head apart.” She looked up at her lover.

“You did that to me, Anders. You're the reason I had to kill him. You're the reason I – ” She swallowed painfully.

“You're the reason _we_ had to kill Fenris, Blondie,” Varric said. His voice was hard.

Hawke shut her eyes. She could still see it – the steely anger in the elf's face – that last swing of his greatsword – she ducked, and Fenris staggered, realizing too late that Varric had gotten behind him. Instinct took over. Hawke lunged through the hole in the elf's guard, ramming a dagger into the weak point in his armor near the joining of the hip, forcing the blade up into his intestines. Fenris' choked gasp had been cut short by Hawke's other dagger as she ripped his throat out. She'd stood and watched her friend collapse, watched the light go out in his eyes as his blood pooled on the flagstones. She'd met Varric's eyes as she knelt to retrieve her dagger. Her face had probably looked much like his did just then. But then the moment passed, and she was up, and fighting again.

Anders' shoulders sagged.

“I never meant for that to happen,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“You never meant – _you_ never _meant!_ You selfish, arrogant – ” Hawke spluttered, groping for a strong enough word.

“I'm sorry,” Anders said.

Hawke hit him.

The mage went down, three gashes marking his jaw where the sharp knuckles of Hawke's gauntlet had cut him. He blinked up at her, blood running down his neck, trying to shake the ringing from his ears. Hawke stood over him, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched.

“You bastard. You murdering – you – you – ” She caught her breath. “You _manipulated_ me! I trusted you and you dragged me into your _plot_ to kill _hundreds_ of innocent people! Everyone who died in that explosion! Everyone who died in Kirkwall's streets! Every mage the Templars killed on Meredith's orders! You _knew_ what she would do, you knew _exactly_ what her response would be, so you _provoked_ her into killing half the bloody Circle just to start some bloody rebellion that will probably be put down, _hard,_ before anyone but the Templars have time to respond! You got your own friends killed! And you put _me_ in the middle of it! Fenris, Orsino, Maker _knows_ what they'll do to Aveline – all those people – everyone in the damn chantry that day – ” Hawke's voice shook; there were tears in her eyes.

“Their blood is on my hands now too, every damned one of them, because you put me in the middle of it. You didn't just know what Meredith would do, Anders. You know me much better than you ever even thought you knew her. You forced my hand. You forced all our hands. You knew I'd never stand by while she slaughtered every mage in Kirkwall. You dragged _me_ into this, and all I bloody did was _kill._ I – ” She rubbed her eyes angrily, turning away from Anders where he lay on the ground, one hand pressed to the cuts on his face, watching her.

“I couldn't save them. I couldn't save any of them. And it's all because of you.”

The wind seemed to go out of Hawke's sails. Her shoulders slumped. She took a few steps down the beach, trying and failing not to cry. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting to control her breathing. Isabela put an arm around her.

“I couldn't save any of them. Not the mages, not Bethany, not Carver, not Orsino, not Fenris, not _mother,_ not even the _bloody_ dog – ” Hawke's voice broke. Isabela hugged her tight and she buried her face in the pirate's shoulder, sobbing helplessly. The tears came in a torrent, sudden, inexorable as the tide. Hawke sank slowly to her knees on the sand and Isabela went with her, heedless of the sharp edges of Hawke's armor against her skin as the Champion of Kirkwall – the _former_ Champion of Kirkwall – cried like a child in her arms.

 

_9 days later._

 

By the time they got to Cumberland, it was already burning. Hawke checked at the top of the bluff, stopping her horse as she stared down at the plains below. Half the city looked to be on fire.

“Hawke, what – bloody hell.” Isabela was beside her, mouth in a grim line.

“What is it?” Merrill piped up from behind them. Hawke shook her head.

“If it's what I think it is, Anders is going to have a _very_ good day,” she said sourly. “Come on.” Hawke rode on, down the bluff, towards the embattled city.

“By the Dread Wolf!” Merrill cried, pausing at the top of the ridge.

“Could be pirates,” Varric said.

“Or slavers,” Isabela muttered, urging her horse after Hawke's.

“Maker defend us all,” Anders whispered. Hawke didn't hear him. She was already too far away.

 

_That night._

 

The campfire was only embers now. Everyone was asleep, except for Anders: Hawke could just see him sitting by the dying fire, his silhouette outlined against the dark. She lay, wrapped in her blanket, cold and uncomfortable on the distinctly lumpy ground, listening to Varric snore. They'd managed to buy some food from one of the villages on the outskirts of the city, and had stolen a bit more, but their own supplies were running low. It didn't seem like a particularly good time to head into Cumberland, but then, it didn't seem to be a particularly good time to do _anything_ lately, so Hawke guessed they might as well try their luck. She, Isabela, and Varric should be able to hire on somewhere, as caravan guards or something. There were bound to be merchants desperate enough to pay a few Kirkwaller refugees to help them get their goods as far away from Cumberland as bloody possible, particularly if they'd lost their original hirelings. That took care of her at least, but what about Merrill? Hawke refused to worry about Anders. She knew exactly what he was going to do now.

Hawke and Varric had gone into the city earlier that day, and found that her first guess had been right – the Cumberland Circle had rebelled. Anders would be haring off to join their noble cause at any moment; she was only surprised he hadn't left them already. It would have been a relief in many ways to have him gone – to not have to speak to him, not have to see his face and remember how he'd betrayed her. All the time they'd spent together, all the nights curled up in bed, every time he'd whispered _I love you_ into her hair when he thought she was sleeping – worthless. She didn't even think he'd lied to her about his feelings. It would have been so much less horrible if he had.

Hawke rolled over, shutting her eyes and trying to pretend Anders wasn't sitting on the ground behind her. A root jabbed her in the ribs. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable, but it was hopeless. Hawke buried her face in the crook of her arm, suppressing the urge to swear at the offending tree. If Anders knew she was awake... Well, it wasn't as if he'd ask to talk to her. They'd hardly spoken since that morning outside of Kirkwall. She didn't know what to say to him. Yell some more? Demand answers? It all felt pointless.

Hawke knew what he'd been trying to do, and why he'd done it. If Cumberland were any indication, he might even have succeeded, in the short term at least. But – Hawke gripped a handful of her hair with an angry fist. She hated the Circle, had spent half her life fleeing from it, defending her little sister, worrying about her father – but what had happened in Kirkwall, what Anders had done, was _wrong_. What had he said? “I know damn well how things shouldn't be.” So he'd gone ahead with his plan, murdered hundreds of people and caused the deaths of hundreds more, no doubt, to start a war that might end with even more brutal oppression of the mages who survived.

But what if the mages won? Hawke stomped hard on the tiny seed of hope she felt sprouting in her chest. She couldn't deny that the Circle was unjust and cruel, couldn't deny that she despised most Templars, couldn't deny that everyone's fear and hatred of mages was unfair, irrational, and wrong. She couldn't deny that she wanted mages throughout Thedas to live free. And maybe now their bid for freedom had finally begun...

Again, she saw the pillar of flame bursting from the chantry's roof, a scarlet column of destruction stretching up to touch the sky. Again, she felt the blank shock of it, and then the growing horror as she realized what she was looking at. Again, she stood staring in disbelief as Anders, the one she loved, claimed responsibility for the destruction unfolding before her eyes. Again, she thought to herself, _how could he? How_ could _he?_ But he had. And now, now it was over.

What course of action might have encouraged the Cumberland mages to rise up against the Templars there, without causing as many casualties in Kirkwall? Perhaps if Meredith had been left to her own devices, the idol – sword – _thing_ she carried would have driven her so far into madness that the Templars would have discovered it own their own. But what would that have taken? What would she have done in the meantime? Her second-in-command, what was his name, Cullen – he hadn't opposed her order to kill every Circle mage in Kirkwall; he'd only balked when Meredith demanded Hawke's execution as well. Unchecked, what horrors would Meredith have unleashed before she was finally stopped? And what about the idol? What then?

Hawke bit her tongue, trying to ignore the thought that she was starting to sound like Anders. She didn't know what _should_ have been done, what other atrocities _could_ have sparked the same response from the mages. She wasn't sure she wanted to. But at least two Circles had revolted, and they were revolting _now,_ not in some perfect future where no one had to die, where Hawke never had to lose her family one by one, kill her friends, watch the home she'd built crumble into dust around her. Hawke clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. She didn't want to start crying again. She was tired of crying in front of Anders. He'd been there for her after her mother... No. She needed not to think about that. She needed not to think about any of it. Anders had betrayed her. She'd never trust him again.

But there it was again, that niggling whisper in the back of her mind – _the mages are revolting right now! Right now! You could help them. You could..._ Shit, Hawke thought. She refused to consider the possibility of working with Anders in any capacity. She hadn't sent him away before the battle in Kirkwall because – well, she'd told herself she wanted to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn't do any more damage. Maybe he'd make up for some of the harm he'd caused, save a few people, working with her. She'd told him she'd get him out of the city – after that, he was on his own. But... She hadn't even offered to hand him over to Meredith, and the Knight Commander had been standing right in front of her! All she would have needed to do was kick Anders in the back of the knee and throw him at her!

Deep down, Hawke knew Meredith would never have been satisfied with one apostate's head. But part of her was still searching for some way to head it all off, keep the battle from happening, save as many people as she could instead of standing by while they were slaughtered... And as always, she was too late. Too slow on the uptake. Too trusting. And so she'd failed. Again. Because of him.

But Anders. The silly smile on his face when he made friends with another stray cat; that stupid feathered robe he wore; his fierce integrity; the feeling of his skin on hers; the hours lying in bed together, just holding each other. Hawke yanked on a fistful of her own hair, furious. She still loved him. That lying, manipulative, murdering bastard – she loved him more than she would ever have believed possible, five years ago, meeting that Gray Warden with the fierce look in his eyes and healing magic cupped in his hands. He could be foolish and arrogant, and tended toward the melodramatic, but he stuck to his principles without even a hint of naivete, despite clinging to such high ideals as Truth and, well, Justice. Anders wasn't some single-minded blockhead – he was merciless to his enemies but far too generous and kind for his own good, brutal to those who would do harm but gentle to anyone who needed his help, cold and calculating at times, but steered by his own feelings above all else. He was terribly brave, and so deeply, painfully afraid.

Hawke bit the inside of her cheek, crushing that train of thought. She was waxing poetical over a man who'd manipulated her into helping him murder hundreds of people who might otherwise have been spared. Hawke wasn't some damsel jilted at the altar, weeping into her veils – she was _livid_. Anders had betrayed her trust, he'd used her and everything she'd made of her life in Kirkwall to get past the Grand Cleric and plant his device in the Chantry, he'd turned her into a weapon for use in his little vendetta –

Hawke ground her teeth. It wasn't a little vendetta. Anders was right. Mages _should_ be free. It _would_ take nothing less than a war to liberate them. War was a terrible thing; so many people died; horrors were inflicted upon the innocent far worse than a swift and sudden death. Maker, she couldn't really be _defending_ Anders, to herself of all people... Hawke propped her forehead on a fist. What Anders had done in Kirkwall had been wrong. He shouldn't have done it, but he had, and now it was over. Meredith was dead; at least one Circle in Thedas was in open revolt against the Templars. Bethany's face seemed branded on the back of her eyelids. Hawke thought of her father.

How could she not help them?

Andraste's _cunt,_ Hawke thought, disgusted with herself. But there she lay, the weight of her decision settling over her like a new set of armor. Was she really planning to stay with Anders, to go on fighting by his side and join the mages' rebellion, wherever that might take her? She was, Maker help her. Hawke rolled onto her back, planning to glare up at the stars for awhile, but ended up with another tree root digging into her spleen.

“To the Void with this,” she muttered, sitting up. Varric was still snoring. The fire was nearly out. Anders was gone.

Shit.

“Anders?” Hawke hissed into the darkness. _“Anders?”_ The quiet pressed in on her for a moment. Then:

“Hawke?” Something moved on the other side of their campsite. It was Anders, his staff in his hand, a bag slung over one shoulder.

“You're going down to the Circle in the city,” she said. It wasn't a question.

“I need to do _something,”_ he replied.

“You're not even going to wait for the sun to come up so you don't break your bloody leg on the way?” she quipped. Anders sighed.

“I'd rather just … go. I … ” He turned his head, looking toward Cumberland. The burning buildings were really an excellent landmark, Hawke thought.

“I don't know what I can say to you that you'd care to hear. I don't know what to say to anyone. I think there's nothing I _can_ say. You don't need me following you around. You all have lives to get back to,” Anders said.

“Well I can't speak for the others, but _my_ life burnt to the ground last week,” Hawke said. Anders rubbed his forehead.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'll go now. Goodbye, Marian.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Hawke yelped, trying to pick up her blanket and stand at the same time, which resulted in her falling over and smacking her elbow on yet another tree root. “Bloody _hell...”_

Anders knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

“I think my dignity is broken,” she muttered.

 _“You_ have _dignity?_ Where have you been _keeping_ it all these years?” Anders joked. Hawke surprised herself by laughing a little.

“Seriously though, Anders.”

“What is it?” He sounded like he was preparing himself for her to yell at him some more. Hawke looked down at her knees.

“I want to come with you,” she said.

The silence was broken only by Varric's snores. One, she counted. Two, three, four. Five breaths was enough time, right? Five deep, slow, snoring breaths.

“Anders?” she said, rather timidly.

“You want to … walk down to the city with me? Now?” he asked, bemused.

“No, you idiot! I want to join the rebellion. I want to fight the Templars. The way things are now, it's not right – it's – hell. It's not like I have anything better to do.”

“You – what?”

Hawke spoke with exaggerated slowness, enunciating carefully. “I. Want. To. Help. You. Fight. The. Templars. Honestly, Anders. I thought we got this listening comprehension thing sorted out months ago.” Hawke got the impression that Anders was goggling at her, but she couldn't really tell in the dark.

“If I want to do this I'll need to go with you anyway. They'll never let little old me in with my knives and my no magic. They'd assume I was a Templar plant and probably turn me into a toad on the spot or something. Ha! Toad. Spot. That was unintentional, but I'll take credit for it anyway.”

“One of us has gone crazy, Marian. It's either you or it's me and I have no idea which. Probably me. I – are you out of your _mind?”_

“No,” Hawke said. “Don't get me wrong. I'm still angry with you about – about the Chantry – all those people – Fenris – you _lied_ to me – you – ” Hawke ground her teeth, stopping herself before she started yelling again. Varric at least seemed to be getting a good night's sleep, and she wasn't going to take that away from him if she could help it.

“Anders … You did something terrible. You did it to your friends, and your patients, and all the people in Kirkwall, and probably mages all over Thedas, and you did it to me. Even after … everything. But you're fighting on the right side. I care about justice too, you know.”

“I … can't say I wouldn't be glad of your help. We're going to need it if we want to win this.”

“Bullshit. I'll just be another foot soldier. I can't even blow stuff up! Just with the stabbing. You know.”

“Right …” Anders said dubiously.

“I'd better get my things together then. I wouldn't want to make you late for your own party.”

Anders seemed about to respond, but evidently thought better of it and rose with a sigh. He held out a hand to Hawke, and pulled her to her feet.

“Well,” she said cheerfully. “A mass murderer with a price on his head and the disgraced Champion of Kirkwall, off to fight for freedom and justice. This should be fun!”

“Maker defend us,” Anders muttered, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes.

“Indeed,” Hawke said sardonically. Shaking her head at her own folly, she picked up her blanket and went to find her saddlebags. Well, at least she wouldn't be bored, right? Thank the Maker for small favors. Hawke rolled her eyes at herself and started putting on her armor.

 

_The next morning._

 

“Andraste's _ass!_ Those idiots!”

Merrill woke with a start. Isabela was still yelling.

“That stupid bastard, dragging Hawke with him – shit!”

“What did you expect, Rivaini? Hawke's never been one to exercise good judgment, especially when Blondie's involved.” Varric was building a fire, shaking his head.

“What happened?” Merrill asked plaintively.

“Hawke and Anders took off during the night. Bloody hell!” Isabela kicked a rock, furious. The little stone went sailing off into the grass.

“What? Where did they go?”

Varric paused, flint and tinder in one hand, and jerked his chin at Cumberland. Smoke hung over the city in a sullen cloud. Merrill could smell it from more than a mile away: wet ash, charred wood, cooked meat.

“Oh,” she said. “Are we going after them?”

“They obviously don't _want_ our help,” Isabela said.

“What about you, Varric?”

The dwarf was bent nearly to the ground, blowing on the little heap of kindling in front of him. The fire caught as Merrill watched, flames blooming yellow and gold, crackling cheerfully in counterpoint to the birds singing in the tree above her head. Varric sat up and braced his hands on his knees.

“No, Daisy. I'm not joining this crazy war, not even for Hawke.”

“Then what will you do now?” Merrill asked. Varric sighed.

“I have no idea,” he said.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> To close the obvious plot hole here: Hawke and Anders aren't going to tell anyone who they are, of course. Canon aside though, it would probably make their lives a lot harder (and shorter) if they went around telling everyone *why* they left Kirkwall. "It was on fire" seems like a pretty reasonable explanation to me, and it's not even a lie.


End file.
